


Whispers of the Past

by SeaweedWrites



Series: 30 Day Prompt Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Nothing Overtly Mentioned about Season 4, Drama, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda Season 4 Spoilers?, Mentions of Redbeard, Mentions of Victor - Freeform, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, mentions of past childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: This is for the Day 27 prompt: “Siblings/ Family Gathering”. It is set before the series starts. Sherlock is probably about 20 years old here, well before he met Greg Lestrade or John Watson.Sherlock goes missing, and it's up to Big Brother Mycroft to find him. But will he be too late? And what will Mycroft think when his brother reveals a long-held secret?





	Whispers of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> I found a 30 day prompt challenge. I am not going to even bother trying to do them all in 30 days, but I do want to eventually finish all of them.   
> I am going to try to do them all in the same “universe” except for the AU of course. If a fic isn't in the same universe, I will say so in the Author Notes.   
> They will be set all through the series and possibly before and after. I will note when they take place, so assume spoilers for the whole series for all of them.   
> I won't be doing them in order. I'll do them as I get the inspiration.   
> Some might just be short drabbles, and others may be rather long.
> 
> Xxxxxxxxx
> 
> This is for the Day 27 prompt: “Siblings/ Family Gathering”. It is set before the series starts. Sherlock is probably about 20 years old here, well before he met Greg Lestrade or John Watson.
> 
> It's not beta-ed or Brit-picked, so any problems with it are my own. I just had a bit of inspiration hit me, and I wanted to get this out before it left my head, so it's not as polished as my last multi chapter story.
> 
> I really do love writing Mycroft Holmes. I've been told by others that I do it fairly well, though oddly enough my personality is the EXACT opposite of his. It's fun to get in his head, so I really enjoyed this little quick trip into his expansive brain. 
> 
> This is a little fic to hold you guys over while I am writing a nice, long, angsty sick!Sherlock fic that I hope will be out soonish. My betas and I are working hard on it, I promise!
> 
> Sherlock goes missing, and it's up to Big Brother Mycroft to find him. But will he be too late? And what will Mycroft think when his brother reveals a long-held secret?
> 
>  
> 
> xxxxxxxx

> It had been almost a week now. A day or two, he didn't mind. Three or four was pushing it. But in six days there had been no sign of his brother, despite the best attempts of his extensive network. Every day that went by ratcheted up his stress less level.

> But Sherlock had a network as well, and when it came to making the younger Holmes disappear, those homeless friends of his were quite adept. Mycroft begrudgingly admired them- it's possible that they might have even make decent MI5 agents- if not for the propensity for drugs.

> “Legwork.” Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand down his weary face. As much as he was loathe to do so, it was time to take this into his own hands. He could wait no longer. This had to end, NOW. He was frustrated in that lack of progress from his team. He pressed the red intercom button on his desk.

> “Anthea, have the oldest car ready in five minutes.” He rang off before she could respond, knowing that she wouldn't fail him. He stood up, gathered his coat and trusty umbrella, and headed towards the unknown.

> Mycroft's associates had already scoured most of the back alleys and doss houses that Sherlock had known to frequent in the past, and came up totally empty. But he'd heard rumors- rumblings of a new place that some of the locals were starting to frequent. It was a run down, abandoned building in a less traveled corner of Hyde Park, Westminster.

> It felt so strange to Mycroft, sliding into the driver's side of a car. It was rare that he ever had cause to drive himself, and a sense of rustiness made him nervous. This was no time to think about that. Driving isn't a hard concept, easy enough to pick up on, even after years of disuse, he thought to himself. He had more important things to worry about now. Mycroft turned the car over and gently put it into reverse.

> He gave himself a quick once over in the rear view mirror when he slipped the car into gear, immediately chiding himself for not dressing down. He was going to a known drug den in a three piece suit, armed with an umbrella. Still, he had no time to find any slummier clothes. His brother needed him.

> The drive was the longest 20 minutes of his life. It was with a small sense of relief, and a bigger sense of dread, when he parked the car and made his way through the overgrown brush towards the building he hoped contained Sherlock.

> It was pretty easy to spot the squat, one level concrete building, with no windows, covered in graffiti and long running vine weeds. The door was wood, halfway rusted off its hinges and hanging at an awkward angle.

> Mycroft was pleasantly surprised that there was no one on “guard duty”. He could hold his own in a fight with a junkie if needs must. He'd had to before when pulling Sherlock out of drug dens in the past, but he loathed to get his hands dirty, in this case quite literally.

> He stepped through the door, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the almost total darkness. This building had almost certainly been used in the past as some sort of storage shed. Over the years, the woods had grown up around it, and it had been forgotten by all except the dregs of humanity.

> And Sherlock Holmes.

> Bodies lay strewn across the floor, laying on old, dirty mattresses, or blankets. Some of them were laying on nothing but the rotted floor. It used to be wood, but large portions had rotted out and there were giant clods of dusty dirty that kicked up into the air when someone shifted- choking Mycroft's lungs, making his head swim and sending waves of nausea through his body.

> The room was fairly small, and it only took a couple of passes to find the lanky, curly haired man Mycroft was looking for. He rushed over to Sherlock's side. He was curled up in a fetal position. His hair was long and wild and unkempt, like it hadn't been washed in weeks or cut in months. His skin was pale and sallow, his clothes hung off of him loosely. There were dark circles under his closed, sunken eyes.

> “Sherlock.” He gently put his hand on his brother's shoulder, knowing that waking him suddenly could cause him to lash out. Sherlock had almost broken his nose once when Mycroft was leaning over his brother. He'd assumed Sherlock was unconscious.

> He wasn't.

> Mycroft never made that mistake again.

> This time, there was no answer. “Sherlock.” He shook Sherlock lightly, his eyes roaming over his brother to find any possible injuries he might have, and also to search for the list. Ever since the first time Mycroft found him, Sherlock had promised there would always be a list of what he had taken. Sometimes Sherlock hid it well, other times it was laying next to his unconscious body, still half gripped in his limp fingers.

> There seemed to be no injuries, nothing a few very hot showers couldn't take care of, and so far no list.

> Mycroft's voice wavered just the tiniest bit as he called his brother's name. Once again there was no response. He was breathing, albeit shallowly and quickly, He had a sheen of sweat on his face, and his curls were matted to his forehead. He was almost definitely running a fever, and he needed to get reversal drugs for whatever was in his system as soon as possible.

> The elder Holmes stepped back and unscrewed the tip of the bottom of his umbrella, revealing a rather sharp point, not long enough to do real damage but enough to deter would be attackers. Mycroft took the point and pressed it against meaty part of the palm of Sherlock's hand, not enough to break the skin- enough to hurt Sherlock and hopefully wake him.

> Sherlock rolled over onto his left side, muttering softly under his breath. It was so soft that Mycroft couldn't make out what he was saying. He leaned down closer to try to catch what his brother was whispering. Most of it sounded like wordless gibberish, sounds more than anything else.

> Until he caught one word.

> A name.

> “Victor.”

> Mycroft's blood ran cold. His breath caught in his throat.

> No.

> He couldn't start remembering now. It had taken many years and and many therapists to finally get Sherlock to repress those terrible memories. And now, everything's threatened to be wiped away in one drug fueled death binge.

> Mycroft noticed that when Sherlock had shifted, his shoe had come off, leaving a bare foot free. The elder brother took the sharp end of his umbrella and was much less gentle this time, poking hard while almost hissing his brother's name. “Sherlock!”

> That was finally enough to bring Sherlock to some semblance of wakefulness. His eyes went wide and he gasped out, sitting up, but obviously immediately regretting it, His face turned gray and he leaned thankfully away from Mycroft while he upended the contents of his stomach.

> When he was done, he turned back to Mycroft, bleary eyed, a string of bile still hanging from his lips.

> “Do you have the list, Sherlock?” Mycroft had neither the time nor the inclination for small talk or words of comfort.

> “Hello to you,too, Brother mine.” Mycroft could tell it was supposed to be contemptuous, but his voice was shaky and low, breathy, and came out as more of a whisper.

> “You know I will search you if you don't hand it over. We don't want a repeat of that fiasco, do we?”

> For a moment, Sherlock said and did nothing, attempting to stare down his brother and failing miserably. Finally, he pulled a small piece of paper from under the runner's jacket he was wearing and handed it to Mycroft, who perused it a moment, then pulled out his trusty leather binder notebook, placed it inside, and put the binder back inside his own jacket.

> “Come, brother, mine. Let's get you home.” Mycroft reached down and took Sherlock's hands, hauling him upright bodily. He was so thin, it took less effort than Mycroft though it would, and he stumbled back a step, thankfully he was able to keep them both upright.

> Sherlock was wobbly on his feet, so Mycroft put his arm around his brother. He'd been so much shorter only a few years ago- he thought- when the drug binges started. He was thin and gangly, all limbs, not grown into his body. Now Sherlock was only an inch shorter than he was, no less rakish but finally fully blossoming into adulthood.

> If he didn't kill himself with an overdose first.

> Hardly anyone else in the room had stirred through their whole exchange, thankfully, The last thing Mycroft wanted to do was to deal with more than one strung out junky today. Dealing with his brother was more than enough.

> Speaking of that.. Sherlock was being awful compliant as they were making their way back towards the door, which made Mycroft even more nervous. Usually he was either only semi conscious, or snarky, argumentative, and having a full on strop. Did he remember Victor? Was that was why he was so complacent, because he was thinking back to those awful times when he was a child?

> Mycroft had to know.

> “While you were laying there, Sherlock. I heard you mention... Redbeard.” Sherlock stopped mid step, his jaw hanging loosely.

> “What about my dog?” Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft tried to hide his utter, utter relief. He still thought Redbeard was his dog. He let out a long, sighing breath.

> “Nothing, Sherlock. You simply said his name.”

> “Oh.” A wistful look crossed the younger man's face. “I... still miss him sometimes.”

> Mycroft knew if Sherlock had been in his right mind, he never would've said that, and most likely he wouldn't remember later that he had. He gently patted his brother's shoulder and led him out the leaning door and towards the car. “I know, William. Let's get you home, and you can rest.”

> Sherlock didn't even seem to register the use of his given name, the name Mycroft had called him before his best friend died. He simply nodded softly and let himself be taken away.

> Mycroft buckled his brother in, then walked around to the driver's side, where he dialed Anthea's number.
> 
> “I found him. Please run a bath and have some food and the doctor on call ready. We should be home in about thirty minutes.” He started up the car and headed out, hoping, as he did every time, that this would be the last time he would have this sort of family reunion.

 


End file.
